


A Song of Swords

by BlackDeath



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Death, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gen, Romance, Tragedy, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-20 14:00:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackDeath/pseuds/BlackDeath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are no regrets in the songs. Just swords.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brienne I

 

**Brienne I**

 

 

It was dawn when the raven came.

Brienne lingered abed, head brimming with the night’s ghosts. She paid them little heed. They were drowning, shapeless things; voices that vied over the rush and roar of memory.

She rolled over, disentangling herself from the blanket wedged at her thighs. The raven beat ferocious and insistent at the window.

“I hear you.”

Brienne stood and lifted the latch; the bird arrowed past her and landed in a cache of shadows that spilled across the chamber.

She stared hard at it before lumbering to the table to retrieve the remains of a plate of fish. Shredding the leftover morsels into her palm, she returned to where the raven was watching and fed it by hand. Its eyes glinted at her, as if habit was all that kept it from making ribbons out of her flesh. Not that she could afford to lose any more.

When it was done, Brienne removed the scroll of parchment that had been tethered to its leg. Catching sight of the wax seal gave her pause. She knew it well. The open maw of the lion was unmistakable.

Jaime.

Her body flushed.  She closed her eyes to pulsing darkness.

Opening them again she drew breath. Her lungs obeyed, but with a force of will, as if she’d been kicked by a horse. Her knees trembled. _Fool,_ she thought. _Sit down before you fall._

It had been a year. Nearly a year since they’d parted. Nearly a year since the Dragon Queen and Jon Snow had taken the Iron Throne. Nearly a year since the Great War; since Sansa Stark and Stoneheart and the Others and—

He had written.

The raven squawked, reminding of its presence. Brienne ignored it.

She sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing the letter against her lap. He had told her he would write; that she wasn’t to forget the debt he owed her. _A Lannister always pays his debts_ , he had said, smiling. _And collects on his investments._

But that had been a life and a world away.

As she unrolled the parchment a short, spidery scrawl revealed itself. Brienne gazed on it stupidly for a moment, surprised by its brevity. He hadn't minced words.

It occurred to her then that she had never seen Jaime's hand before. Yet she didn’t need to know him to see that he had struggled. She felt a pang thinking of him sitting in front of the fire writing, spitting curses and hanging himself at having to relearn yet another such simple task. An unaccountable feeling like gratefulness swelled, overtaking her as she read.

**_My Lady of Tarth,_ **

**_It seems I am once more to be a lion without a rock. I confess my only thoughts have been of visiting yours. Give me leave, and I won’t keep either of us waiting. I should think there’s been enough of that._ **

**_Jaime_ **

Brienne's breaths had returned to shallow droughts as she finished.

_It seems I am once more to be a lion without a rock..._

Her heart quickened. She read it again.

He was no longer in the Queen’s service.

_Be still. You cannot take his meaning. They will have need of him—they are rebuilding._

Tales were still rampant across the Seven Kingdoms of how the Dragon Queen, Jon Snow, and Tyrion had put an end to the dark winter. But wasn't it Jaime who had told her that life was not a song, though songs made sweet bedfellows? Victory was an easy feast to glut upon, but made for a short meal. Power was a thing ever sought; the only mistress all men chanced death to lie with.

Before Brienne had returned to Tarth, Jaime had declared his intention to stay and help refortify King’s Landing while his brother brooded over a strategy to crush the bands of resistance opposing the reunification of Westeros.

 _They cannot possibly spare him. Something is amiss._  Brienne picked up the letter and searched it, as if scouring a third time would uncover some hidden truth she hadn't noticed the first two.

Yet it was undeniable. Jaime had written that he wanted to come to her; to Tarth.

_I confess my only thoughts have been of yours..._

_...I won’t keep either of us waiting..._

The last time Brienne was alone with him had been after the final battle. She had found him hours later in the Sept of the Red Keep.

_He was kneeling beside a woman with sun in her hair the same as his own. There was a sword wound through her heart that had flowered, spilling across the rise of milk pale breasts beneath her gown._

_Jaime had heard her approach but never said a word, red horror staining his golden hand._

The raven was getting restless. Brienne could hear the clacking of its talons against the hearth’s flagstones. She sighed.

 _No, I will not keep you_.

Outside the window blue light mingled with the gray of Tarth’s sea clouds.

Brienne reached over and wrested out parchment and quill from the chest of drawers beside the bed. She waited and listened as the cries of gulls pierced the silence of the morning. And remembering the press of Jaime Lannister's beard against her lips, she began to write.

 


	2. Tyrion I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is talk of Thappireth.

** Tyrion I **

****

“I know that look.”

Jaime turned on him. He had slipped into the library as soon as the small council meeting was over. Tyrion hadn’t glanced up from his book once as he entered.

“You remind me of Father sitting there; eyes for horns sprouting from your skull.”

“I need not look at you to judge your mood. I’ve had since infancy to practice.”

Jaime regarded him coolly. Tyrion took his time in marking the book’s page before closing it with a clap of dust.  

“There. Now what brings you to my cheery corner of the keep?”

The word ‘brother’ hung at the end of the question, conspicuously absent.

“I doubt you can be unaware of why I am here.”

“Then why bother coming at all?”

“I would have it said.”

Tyrion gestured to a gilt chair opposite him. Jaime sat.

“As I was saying…I know that look.”

Jaime understood the game. He would have to wait. His jaw worked.

“This is ‘Resolute Jaime.’ Hard-eyed and staring down a wintry horde of White Walkers. Only there are no wights for you now to sharpen your blade upon. So I might ask: what are you feeling so resolved about?”

“I want to leave King’s Landing.”

“Certainly. And you wish to go to Tarth?”

“You expected somewhere else?”

Tyrion didn’t reply. He watched his brother, seeing the changes time had wrought in him since the war. He had been a young man once; golden, blade-like, elegant. Everything Tyrion was not. He had envied his brother his beauty, and loved him for it. But he envied him no more, and wondered if love was still a necessary parcel to it.

Jaime yet shined, but whereas he was a god before he was now encased in mortal flesh. Tyrion suspected it happened the moment he had lost his hand—his immortality lifted in exchange for salvation from their sister.

As for himself, Tyrion didn’t care to think on it. At least the loss of his brother’s hand had been poetic; he could not see what salvation he had gained with the loss of his nose. Unless it was to teach him to stop sniffing so many cunts.

So much for that.

Tyrion leaned back in his chair. “You’ve come to ask for my blessing.”

“Would you give it?”

He smiled.

Jaime returned it. “I spoke with Jon. He is of the mind to let me go. But Daenerys insists on my staying. I did not count on her inheriting the Targaryen tendency toward superstition—afraid everything will crumble if I should leave. You can influence her in this.”

“Why would I do that? If you recall it was your decision to stay.”

“Yes; and the city’s walls are almost rebuilt—in less than a year’s time. Food is filling the streets and the roads are open. I have even recommended her choice in Queensguard. What more can be done? You’ve no idea how insufferable it is playing cyvasse every night with Selmy. ”

“Come play with me.”

“You’d let me win.”

“Not anymore.”

Jaime wrent his golden hand through his hair. Tyrion absorbed his silence.

“Jon has also neglected to mention that I’ve had my eye on Tarth recently.”

It was a statement not a question. Genuine surprise writ across his brothers’ face at that. He had him now.

“Why?”

“I have reason to believe it key in supplying what we need to suppress the border skirmishes.”

 “And what would that be? Gold? Surely the Lannister mines can produce enough.”

“Surely they can. But even our coffers are not bottomless. Why would I waste our family’s _personal_ assets to fund the Queen’s campaign? Not when there is an option that may be equally exploited in its place.”

“Does Brienne know of your intentions?”

“I have already sent the raven.”

Jaime laughed. “She will never agree. Do you think she wants her island dug into a mountain of dirt around her feet? All for a little gold? Stick to the mainland. They’ve got gold running freely through their rivers. I’m sure if you tickle some lordling’s elbow they’re bound to humor you.”

 “It isn’t gold I seek on Tarth.”

Something in his face must have finally betrayed him because Jaime stilled. He stared at him for a moment, saying nothing. The smile that had been firmly rooted to his chin grew fiercer.

“What have you done you bastard?”

Tyrion’s eyes widened. He reached for the pitcher of wine at the side of his desk and poured a full cup before placing it in front of his brother.

“I’ve merely anticipated your wishes. I will convince Daenerys to allow you to leave King’s Landing and rejoin Lady Brienne in exchange for your help in persuading her to champion our cause.”

Jaime fixed him with an expression of disgust. Tyrion thoughtfully tapped his temple.

“How was it that you once told me Vargo Hoat pronounced it? Oh yes. Thappireth.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
